Three Forty Nine
by SpaceSpirit
Summary: One-shot. Most days, Gordon's smile is a part of him. But on rare days, one's he'd prefer to forget, his smile is a mask.


_A small piece on Gordon and his happiness. I do not own any of the characters or the concept. Enjoy x_

 _ooooo_

There's a clock on his wall and it's ticking.

It isn't the regular tick, so it's throwing Gordon off. There's no resemblance of a heartbeat, or a metronome, no calming or mindless rhythm. It's a _frantic_ tick. A _trapped_ tick. The long hand trembles back and forth, stuck in the same place. The tick is tortured. Strained and frozen in time. _Three forty nine_. _Three forty nine._

Gordon watches the clock hand move ever so slowly, always pulling to get away, but never quite making it to the next number. The hand pings back. He waits. There's a tick. Gordon flinches.

Then it starts all over again.

The clock was fine yesterday. It was ticking away happily in the usual spot above his dresser, keeping time with that _dip_ da _dip_ da. It's is something that has always just been there in his room, not an object he pays any special attention to.

Now that it's broken he notices it. Gordon always notices things that break. He can't _help but notice._

There's a small crack that runs down the glass of the clock face. That wasn't there yesterday either. At three forty nine the clock had fallen from its spot on the wall and landed with a _thud_. He had put it back, slightly askew. The faint image of his reflection can be seen in the glass. He's sitting across from the clock, on his bed, too exhausted to do anything but _stare_ at it. He's smiling. He doesn't want to, but he's _smiling_. Somebody might walk in any second now and they have to see him smiling. After all, he's in his room isn't he? He's _alive_ _isn't he_?

Yellow is a happy colour.

Gordon's room is bathed in it. Beads of light drip through the thin curtains and illuminate the colour even further. It's a warm and powerful light – a _familiar_ light – that calls him out into its embrace. It reflects off all those _stupid_ posters on his walls. The swim team ones, his favourite movies, old photographs…there's barely a clean inch on Gordon's wall. The others get annoyed by that, but he likes it. It's filled with memories.

Admittedly, perhaps they're memories that Gordon should have taken down years ago, but he doesn't have the heart. Especially not that one of the shark. It might be worn at the edges and slightly ripped from where he and Alan once fought over it, but it's _his._ This is all his, and in all its chaotic, well-worn glory, Gordon has never been more glad to see a room in his life.

Because he might never have seen it again.

He might not have come home today.

That realization has been sitting within him for some time now. Ever since three forty nine, in fact. It's sunk like led to the bottom of his stomach and there's no ridding himself of that horrid, nauseous feeling that clutches his insides.

Seven minutes ago, Scott called him downstairs. Gordon hasn't moved yet. He doesn't _want_ to move. There's no strength left in him to do anything other than sit, transfixed by the broken clock on the wall.

He's perfecting his smile, but it's hard this time.

Gordon is supposed to have a spirit unlike any other. It is infused with such life, and vibrancy, that simply being near him is enough to be bombarded with a passion for the brighter side of humanity. His company is something people crave without knowing, and when they're in it, it erases thoughts of anything but the present.

What you see is usually what you get. Gordon prides himself on that. It's a raw and honest openness that steers him, guided by unwavering faith and buoyant optimism. Scott places this nature down to his youth, because apparently, to be mature is to be less trusting. To be older, and wiser, is _not_ see the good in others. But Gordon _does_ see the good in others, and he isn't young, maybe in looks but never in experiences.

Unlike Scott, Virgil puts Gordon's disposition down to mindset and the atmosphere he surrounds himself with. John thinks it's naivety. Alan thinks it's normal.

At times, it seems there is nothing that can eclipse his light. Shadows cast in his direction are simply reflected elsewhere, or ignored, or buried somewhere he would rather not look. Most days, Gordon's smile is a part of him, hovering with ease on his sun kissed face. But on rare days, one's he'd prefer to forget, his smile is a mask.

Happiness becomes an obligation. A duty to fulfil. Like it's expected of him. He genuinely _wants_ to do it, to let others feel the warmth of the sun while his mind is stuck in the shade. That's just hard to keep up sometimes. Gordon hasn't perfected the art of the façade. Far from it, but it comes naturally to him. Because when he does put on his mask, it is almost impossible to tell that it's false. Everyone continues as normal, and eventually, the clouds pass.

But this time it's _hard._ Gordon doesn't want to smile. The clock is stuck on three forty nine and it's not going anywhere. Neither is Gordon. Because two hours ago, he might have died. Two hours ago, someone _did_ die. But it wasn't him, and it wasn't a brother.

Two hours ago, rocks tumble. There's shouting, for him, for the victims, for Mother Nature, to _stop_ making their job so much harder than it already is. Gordon has made a mistake; he hasn't moved in time, he hasn't moved _them_ in time. Those people, the one's he's supposed to be protecting, they're in the way. Leaping forward he tries to push one, but there isn't time. There's never enough _damn_ time.

There's blood on the ground, a lot of blood, but its blood he does not recognize. It isn't Virgil's – who has been down there with him –nor Alan's or Scott's, hovering up above. It isn't his either, even though he felt the brush of the rock, the wind as it fell.

Gordon isn't supposed to feel relief.

When he does, that hurts more than the grief. Because the person who's dead – that's _someone's_ Virgil, or Alan, or Scott, or _John_. It's someone's _person_. Taken away by a simple shift in foundation, a toss of a coin. A step in the other direction and it could have been Gordon. The impermanence of life. That's what really gets him.

They get the rest of the survivors out fine. Fifteen out of sixteen is better than nothing, right? It's just a number to jot down on the International Rescue paperwork. One loss, one figure, no life. Everyone' else is shaken of course, but the medics soon take them away. They'll be fine. They will all be fine. Once they're out of sight, Gordon doesn't have to think of them again.

But he _will_ think of them again.

He'll remember the way their faces warped as the rocks fell. The way his expression mirrored theirs as they too realised it could have been _them_. Any one of them.

On the way back home, Gordon plays it cool, as usual. He waves a hand in Virgil's direction, batting away any worries the elder might have. Alan makes a comment from the back seat, one he's heard from Scott over and over again. They can't save everybody, but they tried. That's what really matters. Gordon nods and smiles, but the smile feels foreign on his face.

His brothers do it too, sometimes, wear a mask. Gordon doesn't remember the first time he notices them doing it, but ever since, he's been unable to _stop_ noticing.

They are doing it today.

At three sixteen they arrived home.

Scott greets them from 'One, exhausted and wary. All he wants to do is yell, let out all the steam that's been building inside. But he has younger brothers around, in particular a youngest brother whose enthusiasm never appears to die. So he takes this into account and he smiles, tells them they all did a great job, that everyone fails now and again.

He looks at Gordon for longer than usual. Gordon knows that he wants to say something more. That it was _him_ that failed this time, _him_ that lost a life, albeit not his own. There's no crinkle in the corner of Scott's eyes when he smiles, that's when Gordon knows it's not real. On days like today, Scott wants to be anything other than a leader and older brother. But he pushes past that and _smiles_. He does it for Alan, and Alan smiles back.

Virgil sees right through it. He always does. But he _pretends_ not to notice. Because if he acknowledges how Scott's really feeling, it means he has to admit to his own emotions too. A heavy hand pats Gordon on the shoulder and he mutters something about needing a shower. Rule one of Virgil dealing with the aftermath of a hard rescue: isolate yourself.

Gordon thinks he might try that, so he does. He makes a stupid joke with Alan on the way out of the lounge. It's one that he doesn't even register, but they both laugh, so it must have been alright. Scott watches him go, that strained smile plastered on his face. Gordon's not sure if it's strained because he's disappointed Gordon's able to laugh after what happened, or if he sees right through the disguise. One of them is worse than the other, but he can't tell which.

At three thirty two Gordon heads up to his room. He's fine for the first part, jumps into his shower, and allows his thoughts to evaporate in the heat. Dirt trickles from his hair and swirls towards the drain, he watches it disappear and it makes him feel better for a while. But then something else swirls alongside it. The remnants of blood dribble from his hands. His stomach curls, the nausea is overwhelming.

Not his blood, but it could have been.

Not his blood, but it _should_ have been.

Not his blood.

 _Not_ his blood.

That's not supposed to make him feel better. It _doesn't_ make him feel better. Because it could be his next time, it could be _any_ of theirs. Feeling like a small and insignificant bird caught in a cage, Gordon bursts from the shower. All of a sudden it's hard to breathe. His heart is pounding and his head wants to explode. Stumbling for his clothes he draws them on, failing to notice that the buttons on his shirt are in the wrong spots, or maybe just failing to care.

At three forty nine the clock is torn from the wall. Because time, _time,_ that's what got in the way. Gordon's heart stops as the tick does. Then both start up again, somewhat irregularly. But Gordon's not finished yet, he tears the books off his shelf, the lamp on his bedside table is pushed, a photo is torn down. Isolation may suit Virgil, but it certainly doesn't suit Gordon.

It's three forty nine when Gordon feels guilty enough to put the clock back up. It's still three forty nine when Scott calls for debrief. Gordon's not sure how long it's _really_ been, but it's darker, and colder, and all he's been doing is staring at the clock on his wall.

It's three forty nine when John appears, blue hologram leaping from the spot on the wall. John is remarkably good at wearing a mask. Eerily silent since the incident, his face reveals absolutely nothing about what he's truly feeling. Gordon has the sudden urge to swipe him away, to delete the calm to his storm. Because _seeing_ John is hard and Gordon swallows back a choke – he longs for the physical presence of his older brother, not a form that he cannot touch. John and he may walk in opposite hemispheres of the soul most of the time, but right now, that's what Gordon needs.

But he doesn't let on. Instead, he smiles. "What's up Johnny?" That's all he can muster. No joke this time, no sarcastic play. The tone of his words sounds cheery enough.

John's eyes flicker briefly from left to right, before staring Gordon down. "Scott called debrief fifteen minutes ago. Everyone's waiting." Straight to the point, as always.

"Oh, that's right," Gordon laughs and rubs the back of his neck. It's a short, humorless burst that's almost painful for him to get out. Fingers moving down, he intertwines them together and can't help but look back at the clock. "I'll be down in a moment." _As soon as the clock moves past three forty nine._

That's a cue for John to leave, but he doesn't. He just hovers and stares, gathering everything he needs to know from the slightest displacements in the room. When Gordon doesn't move from his spot on the bed, John grows impatient. It's been as long a day for him as it has for them all. "If you're not down in two minutes we'll start without you. Oh and Gordon…" he pauses, mask not cracking for a moment. "Your clock is broken."

John switches off and disappears into the wall. Gordon swallows.

At three forty nine there's a knock on the door. Gordon doesn't answer, nor does he bother to get up to open it. He's not sure if he can. The smile on his face returns in an instant. It's starting to hurt. Scott walks in, his own mask dissolved. Lips drawn thin, eyebrows furrowed, the older brother does not look happy to be kept waiting. Concerned eyes take in the books on the floor, the half buttoned shirt, the wavering smile.

Scott stares at him for a while with a reserved expression. Gordon blinks up at him, trying to smile harder, to show him that he really _is_ ok. Any trace of anger disappears In Scott's eyes. Slowly, he maneuvers himself over to Gordon's side without saying a word. He sits. They both stare at the clock. Irregular ticking fills the silent room.

Scott's shoulder brushes Gordon's ever so lightly.

The falling rock had brushed Gordon's shoulder, barely a whisper away from dislocation.

It's the contact that does it. Gordon would have been _fine_ if it wasn't for that. The clouds would have passed like all the other times, but not now. The mask cracks and there's no longer any trace of a smile whatsoever. Gordon isn't sure if he's still himself without it, but it's too late now.

Its three forty nine when Gordon can't take it anymore. "I'm sorry…" he whispers, looking down at his hands. Shoulders trembling, throat tightening, Gordon's not sure what he's apologizing _for._ For not being able to smile, for not keeping it together, for letting that man die, for not being _quick_ enough, for breaking his clock, for being late to debrief. For almost _dying._ For almost putting his brothers through what would be his worst _nightmare._

A sob gets caught In Gordon's throat. He's sorry _for feeling relieved._

It doesn't matter what it's for. Scott understands. Gordon likes to think that he isn't young – that Scott doesn't see him as young anymore, not after everything he's been through. But as Scott's steady arm wraps around his shoulder, Gordon feels _very_ young. Scott's presence always has that effect and probably still will when Gordon's middle aged.

"I'm sorry too," Scott replies, his own words barely audible. Gordon looks up at him. What's he sorry for? When Scott looks back, blue eyes wavering, Gordon understands. _For not being able to smile, for not keeping it together, for letting that man die, for not being quick enough, for letting Gordon almost die. For feeling relieved._

It happens to them all, and they all try to hide it. Something twists in Gordon's chest. It makes him whimper.

At three forty nine Gordon leans on his brother. Scott's head droops and rests gently atop of his. Gordon's fighting back tears and Scott knows this, so he holds him tighter. They stay like that for a moment, saying nothing more, both just soaking in the fact that Gordon's still _there._ He's _not_ dead and, even just for a second; they allow themselves to feel that guilt ridden relief.

There's a clock on the wall and it's ticking.

It's stuck on three forty nine. Gordon doesn't know how long it will stay there. Eventually, it will get fixed, or move on by itself. But days like this, it doesn't have to move on. It can be broken for a while, and everything will still continue around it. That's something Gordon needs to learn. The house can function without happiness for a while; it can function without the mask he wants to wear. Days like these, they're all allowed to be a little broken.


End file.
